Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

I desperately throw the bike onto the crumbly half-shoulder area, the front wheel skidding madly in loose sand, pebbles spraying from the truck, spackling my forehead. My eyes squint, and my brain folds itself into a prayer. I grit my teeth and hope that if I fall, it will be away from the truck's tire, that my skull will not land under the wheel. Rocks scatter underneath my tires and the bike lurches into sand with a sickening twist, then pops back up toward the truck, which, in this brief tenth of a second, is nearly past me. I imagine a spray of gas and steel and coolant and bone shards.
Then, somehow, we manage to miss, though I have no idea how (my eyes are still tightly closed). I feel the rear bumper shaving the hair off the knuckles of my right hand because, all the while, we are driving on the side of the road opposite to what I am used to. I open my eyes and soar over a pothole. God, why can't I slow down?
The Doppler effect of the horn and engine leaves me giddy, and here comes another, up ahead.
Tea Time With Terrorists  Mark Meadows  p199

[Biggles]

The river isn't moving too fast and it's got texture to it, so it shouldn't be too deep. I ease forward and drive the bike into the river slowly, steadily pushing forward as the wheel spins the water into the fender's underside. I've got my chin in the air and the water level is now up to the pegs, so I lift my feet a bit and I'm only a third of the way across. There are two boys on the other side, watching me. I think I can push or drag this bike out of the sludge if it gets bogged. The water's now near the motor. The back tire wobbles on a rock and almost causes me to fall, and the movement forces my toes back onto the bike pegs and the water's right at the motor level, up to my knees, and I stand up a bit to keep my ass out of it all, then gas it hard, as I'm halfway, and the water covers the casing and is spraying out either side like some kind of magic water plow but I'm out on the dry bank now and my boots are full of muck so I stop and rev the motor a few times, looking back, exhaust pipes steaming. The bike burps a few times and I rev the engine again. I am not at all clear on how I made it but I feel great. A motorcycle should be required driving for everyone in the world.
Tea Time With Terrorists  Mark Meadows  p269

[Biggles]

EWAN: I love riding motorcycles. It can be raining, even snowing, I don't care. There's no feeling quite like it in the world. I've said it before: the beauty of the trip is the bike, sweeping into bends, banking the thing knowing it's planted, no matter the road conditions. Riding along there's so much time to reflect, which is a rare thing in these days of modern living. I realised that though John O'Groats might have been a throwaway comment initially, it was in fact the perfect place to start. A couple of days in beautiful, barren Scotland - I haven't lived here for years and I don't get to ride these roads very often - was good for the soul. I was relaxed; the Belstaff rally suit was light, comfortable and, most important, waterproof. I was in my element.
Ten miles into the journey, however, I realised I'd forgotten to recalibrate the GPS, which, when you think about it, is a 'page one' thing to do. Stupid - I
wanted to know exactly how many miles I'd covered when we rode into Cape Town and here I was with my GPS not reading the distance correctly.
Long Way Down  Ewan McGregor & Charlie Borman  p33

[Biggles]

EWAN: I'd seen quite a few cars on the motorway; one classic Alfa in particular and a really memorable VW Karman Ghia. I'd left the campsite with Madame Butterfly playing on the iPod and I was really feeling like riding. It was a happy Saturday, the sun shining, the roads good, and it felt fantastic to be part of the brotherhood that is motorcycling. There were so many bikes on the road and everyone acknowledged everyone else and you just knew if you broke down someone would stop. The ride to Siena was brilliant: great tarmac, enough traffic to keep you interested, I was in terrific spirits.
We got there around lunchtime; a wonderful city with the sun falling on wide streets and ancient buildings. Everywhere I looked there were classic cars.
Long Way Down  Ewan McGregor & Charlie Borman  p62

[Biggles]

EWAN: I must have slept because I woke up. The first sound I heard was the wind, my first thought the fact that we had 420 miles to cover today. My face ached, eyes itchy and bleary. Everything was coated in sand - tent, sleeping bag, every stitch of clothing.
We got going by eight, heading for Tobruk - a name that conjured images of war and war movies. We hoped to be there by about six or seven in the evening, but in this wind and with sand drifting on to the asphalt I wondered. In a way, though, I was exhilarated, looking forward to the challenge in the same way that I'd kind of enjoyed last night, lying in the tent, desperately trying to stop it blowing away with the wind screaming and sand flying, knowing the one thing I needed was sleep if I was going to cope with today.
And what a day it turned out to be: hour after hour and the land didn't alter; bleak to the point of depressing. Police checkpoints, military, always following the white van driven by Nuri and the man from the secret service. I was filthy, my stuff was filthy, sand everywhere. It's funny how when you start out on a trip everything is meticulous, the way you pack your gear, tent, your clothes. After a few weeks everything was just stuffed into the bags whether it was dirty or not.
Long Way Down  Ewan McGregor & Charlie Borman  p107

[Biggles]

EWAN: Moments later we were moving up to a chequered barrier and the pyramids were right ahead of us and not quite as deep in the town as I'd thought. The road was wide and dusty; it snaked a few hundred yards to where the massive stone structures dominated the skyline. As I passed his truck, Ramy, our fixer, was standing there in his Indiana Jones hat.
"All yours," he called. Initially I didn't understand what he meant. Then I realised - the area was closed off for the evening, and we were the only visitors. I couldn't believe it. Not only had I ridden my bike to the pyramids, now we had them to ourselves. Two colossal structures, they lifted from the desert with Cairo on one side and an ancient expanse of nothingness on the other. I was speechless, standing on the foot-pegs as if in homage.
As I rode further the third one came into view. It was breathtaking. I still couldn't believe we were there on our own and as Charley pulled up I just thought how inordinately lucky we were. I looked down at the tiny video screen on my bike which I tells me what I'm filming and there was Charley Boorman and behind him a  pyramid!
Long Way Down  Ewan McGregor & Charlie Borman  p128

[Biggles]

Each health worker was not only a trained medical professional - they were up on bike maintenance as well. They had to be: this was the Masai Mara and not the Old Kent Road; there was no AA man at the end of a phone. Every morning before setting off for the day the riders do what my man called PLANS, which was a basic bike check: Petrol, Lubrication, Adjustments, Nuts and bolts. The S was for Stop, i.e. the brakes and tyres. They had fuel facilities on site and made sure they had enough in the bikes for that day; they oiled and greased working parts like the gear shifter and back brake pedal; they checked engine and gearbox oil. They tested front and rear brakes and meticulously scoured the tyres for cuts and nicks. More than once a health worker had ridden past a herd of elephants or a pride of lions only to get a puncture. They carried tyre levers, inner tubes and repair kits and I could only imagine the speed you'd fix that puncture knowing a pride of lions was watching you. Each morning they'd check the chain for movement - a maximum of 20 mm play was the marker. They checked nuts and bolts because they worked loose almost every day given the harsh country these bikes were ridden through.
Long Way Down  Ewan McGregor & Charlie Borman  pp145-6

[Biggles]

CHARLEY: "Right." He was checking the bike. "My least comfortable surface, Charley. The only sand I remember is the beach in Wales when the police chased us off."
"Remember what I told you: lean back on the pegs, dump the clutch and use the throttle. Look ahead as far as you can and if you get in trouble throttle your way out. If you come to deeper sand then lean back a little more. Oh, and avoid the tyre tracks. Always go virgin; once you get in the wheel ruts you'll be stuck. Cut across them to get to the smoother stuff."
I really felt for Ewan. To put things in their proper perspective, I'd trained for a year before I did the Dakar. Ewan doesn't even ride off-road for a hobby; he just overcomes his fears and gets on with it. If he falls off he gets back on again. Sand is different from any other surface, really hard to judge and you either love it or hate it. Ewan hates it, but hats off to him because he was in the saddle and sliding the back end all the way to the hard stuff.
Long Way Down  Ewan McGregor & Charlie Borman  p160

[Biggles]

CHARLEY: A rock had smashed the sensor that tells the bike when the side stand is down. It's a safety device and as soon as you engage a gear the bike stops. With the sensor smashed the computer thought the stand was down.
The bike would start in neutral but if Ewan stepped on the gear lever it died. We looked over the assembly trying to see if there was a connection we could undo, tracing cable up towards the engine until we found one.
Ewan uncoupled it and tried the bike; it started fine but again died as soon as he put it in gear. We were in a bit of a spot; neither of us sure what to do. There was no shade here and it was blistering.
We went back to Steve. He was at work now with another GS1200 in front of him and was trying to figure out why it wouldn't work. Meanwhile we were at the side of the road in Sudan. Crazy, really; as mad as Russ calling the RAC from Libya. While Steve was mulling it over I suggested to Ewan that maybe the brown wire was an earth and it was only the red and white we needed to twist. He was up for giving that a go but I was worried we might short the computer or something. We waited for Steve to call back and when he did he told us to twist just the red and white wires together. It used to be all three, he said but now the brown was only there to earth the connection.
Bingo. Wires twisted, the engine went and we were off and running.
Long Way Down  Ewan McGregor & Charlie Borman  pp174-5

[Biggles]

CHARLEY: Beyond that we were descending again, the same kind of uncertain gravel, and taking a left hander, Ewan lost the front. It just washed away; no warning, no reason other than the transfer of weight and subsequent loss of traction, just as my bike had done that day on the Dakar. He was off before he knew it and my heart was in my mouth. By the time I pulled up he was already hefting the bike from the dirt. He didn't say anything, just took a cursory look for damage and refixed the tank bag. I can't stress how tough it is for a guy who so rarely rides off-road to spend day after day on this kind of surface. Twice this morning he'd had serious moments and had ridden on without complaint.
EWAN: I was used to the spills by now and what choice did I have anyway? What was I going to do, leave the bike and hitch a lift?
Long Way Down  Ewan McGregor & Charlie Borman  p204

[Biggles]

EWAN: Back on tarmac we headed south once more. My bike was feeling a little bouncy, the suspension perhaps a bit soft. I noticed how slowly the landscape changed; it was subtle, not like at a border where the change always seemed to be so dramatic. Riding a bike through a country you don't feel like a tourist, you're exposed to the elements and because you're seeing everything up close you really feel as though you belong.
Coming down, we were into the twisty stuff, hairpin city, and my bike didn't feel good, what with knobbly tyres and yawing suspension. The set-up felt loose and seemed to load up, almost weave, as I took the corners. I was saying as much on the video diary. Avoiding a lorry and sand on the road, I peeled into a left hand hairpin.
Shit, I'm down.
The front died; I was on my side, the bike sliding away and pirouetting on the tarmac. Kind of cool, actually, my helmet cam kept filming and, watching the footage later, it was like something off MotoGP.
Long Way Down  Ewan McGregor & Charlie Borman  p224

[Biggles]

EWAN: On investigation it was about as good as we'd seen: a potential crossing that came at the water along ruts that were quite solid; little mosaic squares of mud with ridges where the sun had cracked them. The water was very shallow; the mud not too deep. Prodding around with sticks we figured that with help, we could get the bikes over.
"We should move one of the trucks first," Russ suggested, "and that way we can thread the winch round the forks and drag the bikes over."
Charley disagreed. "Let the bikes go first," he said. "We'll walk them over. If the trucks go they'll churn up the bottom and we'll never get across."
It was agreed. Charley and I played stone, paper, scissors and he won. With him guiding the throttle and clutch; me and two of the soldiers assisting, we wheeled his bike across the ruts into the soft stuff. In gear with the engine running we half drove, half pushed it through the water and up the far bank. Dry land- we'd made it and celebrated in the traditional style with much yelling and whooping and throwing of imaginary hats in the air. With Charley's bike safely on her side stand with the savanna stretching ahead, we went back for my bike and finally Claudio's.
Long Way Down  Ewan McGregor & Charlie Borman  p243

[Biggles]

CHARLEY: We'd allowed ourselves five days in Tanzania, but Eve was on her way and would be meeting us at the border with Malawi, and I knew Ewan would be itching to get there. Still, it would take as long as it took and the roads looked pretty... interesting. Virtually all of Rwanda had been tarmac. Now we were in Tanzania it would be mostly dirt. Once again, there was a huge change as we crossed the border. Rwanda was vibrant, very clean. Crossing into Tanzania we were back on the veldt, the great savanna; the world drier and dustier, grass and grey dirt, a horizon marked only by the distant mountains.
We stopped for fuel at a petrol station that was no more than a collection of tented huts. There was one pump and it said: 'diesel' but the guy dishing it into jerrycans assured me it was petrol.
"Really?" I said. "It says diesel right there." I tapped the pump with my glove that had been missing the thumb and index fingertips since before Ethiopia.
"No, no, petrol, petrol." I can't tell the difference between the smell of petrol and diesel, had no choice but to trust him. The bike didn't conk out, though, and once Ewan was fuelled up we were off again.
Long Way Down  Ewan McGregor & Charlie Borman  p270

[Biggles]

CHARLEY: I was glad Ewan and Eve had had a day to themselves; if it had been Ollie coming out I'd have done it for sure. And it was great having her around. I know that when the idea was first mooted I'd had some reservations, probably born of not knowing how the dynamic would work. I'd had plenty of experience being on the road with Ewan. We'd been through the pitfalls, both emotional and physical, and we knew how to handle them together. Adding a third person even for a short time, especially one of our wives, had raised the odd question. I needn't have worried of course, Eve was fantastic: I'd known her for years, what kind of a person she was and deep down I'd always known she could handle it. Now she was here and, far from being any kind of burden, her presence was very refreshing.
Long Way Down  Ewan McGregor & Charlie Borman  p285

[Biggles]

CHARLEY: Morgan showed us a collection of snakes, hooded cobras and various others that spat venom into your eyes to blind you. Their aim was perfect and the only way to get rid of it was with water, immediately, and from the most easily available source, out in the bush with no waterhole nearby. Ewan said that he'd happily... no, we won't go there.
We also saw a black mamba, which has to be one of the scariest snakes there is. It can grow to twelve feet long and can swim. On land it moves at twenty kilometres an hour with one third of its body upright, weaving through the bush. Its skin is grey inside of its mouth that's black, and when it bites it injects enough venom to kill ten full-grown men. If you don't get anti-venom immediately you're toast.
Long Way Down  Ewan McGregor & Charlie Borman  p300

[Biggles]

CHARLEY: It was incredible to realise that after such a mammoth journey we only had ten days to go. My mood fluctuated between tremendous excitement about seeing Ollie, Doone and Kinvara, and pangs of sadness that I'd no longer be throwing my leg over the saddle every morning. The thing about travelling like this is you get so used to it, so excited about what each day might bring, that you can't quite contemplate stopping. I remember after Long Way Round I'd be home in London asleep with Ollie and wake up thinking, "I'm late and Ewan's packed and on his bike waiting." It was hard to contemplate going back to normality.
But I couldn't and shouldn't think about that now. I considered the cyclists we'd met, Kurt and Dorothy, on the road for nine years. I thought about Steve in Malawi, his entire life packed on the roof of a truck. I realised just how fortunate we were to be able make this trip, see places like the Okavango and take on roads that hadn't seen a motorcycle in years. This particular road was easier now and standing on the pegs I settled into the rhythm. I was relaxed and happy, excited: thinking no further ahead than the upcoming Namibian border.
Long Way Down  Ewan McGregor & Charlie Borman  p310

[Biggles]

EWAN: We fired up the engines and pulled away from Cape Agulhas. We were on the blacktop: Charley alongside me, I reached across and grabbed his hand. The noise of the engines was drowned suddenly by another, larger, meatier engine altogether: a helicopter. It dipped above us like a bird of prey, a cameraman hanging out the door. I thought of Colin, my bother and former Tornado pilot; he'd arranged a fly-by to launch the trip at Castle Mey. Perfect, I thought, a tornado to begin and a chopper to finish.
Kicking down a gear, I tucked in and cracked the throttle. And finally there was Cape Town cradled in a valley- the sprawl of skyscrapers, suburbs and shanties dwarfed by the might of Table Mountain. I realised this was a dream, a childhood dream: motorbikes and meeting people in the most extraordinary places, people who basically have nothing and yet share what little they have.
I felt like I wanted to turn round and ride back up. We'd met so many fantastic people and seen so many fantastic places, and yet I felt that we had only scratched the surface. There's so much more to learn about Africa. I know I'll be back, and I can hardly wait. It feels more like the beginning of a journey than the end of one.
Long Way Down  Ewan McGregor & Charlie Borman  p327

[Biggles]

Michael and I have had fairly unbelievable weather on our travels up the East Coast. It was often very hot, mostly in the 90s, but even in an armoured leather suit, boots, gloves, and full-face helmet you adapt to that, basically by facing the fact that "it's hot", and carrying on. It's the same onstage, where I was also often working in very hot conditions- you just play the song, wipe away the sweat, drink some water, and carry on.
In all those thousands of miles, and dozens of days, Michael and I had exactly one day of rain- on a country-road ramble from Hipper Lake, New York, to a show near Buffalo. Riding in the rain is not bad when you're not in traffic and you're not in a hurry. You can relax into a smooth, cautious pace (though Michael thinks I ride too fast in the rain- but I think he rides too fast in freeway traffic). I enjoyed those damp, quiet roads through the Adirondacks and the farming country of Western New York.
Far And Away  Neil Peart  pp3-4

[Biggles]

I've also been exploring new territory on the bike. GPS has evolved a lot in the past few years, and even though riding partner Michael and I still call our units Doofus and Dingus, I must say I'm much more inclined to trust the thing now. On the day before a ride, I look over the maps of the area of the upcoming jobsite, and highlight a route along the smallest roads on the Rand McNally maps. Then Michael puts them in the computer and downloads them to Doofus and Dingus. The next day we simply follow their instructions, clearly (usually) and accurately (usually) displayed in front of us.
In that way, we have been able to ride on roads that I'm sure no one but locals have ever travelled, sometimes one-lane paved or unpaved roads through deep forest. Much more fun to putter along those, past woodlands and occasional farms, than the busier roads, of course. It can even be relaxing, in a way that riding in traffic can never be.
Far And Away  Neil Peart  p5

[Biggles]

Taking into consideration that Michael's and my motorcycle rides between shows average about 275 miles a day, I actually spend far more time in the saddle than I do on the drum throne. That takes its toll, too- in the sore spots that Michael and I call "saddle tats"; in the tired mind from making a million decisions about traffic and road surfaces as you ride hour after hour; and in a body beaten by wind, vibration, and the physical activity of motorcycling, especially in the mountains, with so much braking, shifting, accelerating, and moving your body on the bike for more effective cornering.
Then there was the heat- in the 100s for many days, especially in the Southwest. Desert heat is one thing, but when the humidity is also high, as in South Texas, and you're wearing the armored suit, helmet, gloves, and boots, you get to feel like you're covered in a coat of slime, riding past a small-town bank clock showing 105^o.
Far And Away  Neil Peart  p12

[Biggles]

I had run across the term "shunpiking" in car and motorcycle magazines a few times and thought it was fairly well known, but apparently many people are unfamiliar with the concept. It goes back about 500 years, to a time when British roads were lawless, especially at night, prowled by highwaymen and footpads. Villages blockaded their entry roads with a long pole- a pike- stretched across them. Around the same time, toll roads were invented, and a similar pike blocked the way until travellers paid their fee, when the pike would be turned- hence "turnpike."
In those days, travellers who deliberately avoided toll roads called themselves "shunpikers". Lately, the term has been adopted by drivers and riders who deliberately avoid all major roads. On the Snakes and Arrows tour, as Michael and I have commuted to forty-nine shows and covered just under 20,000 motorcycle miles around the U.S. and Canada, we have become major shunpikers.
Far And Away  Neil Peart  p20

[Biggles]

Perhaps my favourite part of a long day on the motorcycle is that first hour of arriving and settling into a hotel, whether humble or luxurious. It feels so good to pull up in front of the hotel, kick down the sidestand, and lift a weary leg over the saddle, still keyed up from the adventures, yet gradually easing into a more relaxed state of mind. I peel off my gloves, lift off the helmet, pull out the earplugs, and slowly stretch my back into an upright posture again. Brutus goes inside to see about our rooms, while I lazily open the aluminium luggage cases and unload my soft bags, unhook the duffel from my saddle, and unzip the tankbag, piling them at the curb. At a hotel sufficiently luxurious as to provide a bellman, such as the Bayerischer Hof, I'll load up the luggage cart (at our hotel in Scotland, the doorman looked at me blankly when I requested a cart- they call it a trolley). Piling on my gear, hanging my helmet from the crossbar, I'll start adding Brutus' luggage, too.
Once the bikes are parked, we find our way to our rooms and start the usual sequence of rituals. First unpack the dress-up-for-dinner clothes (suit and tie in Europe, black cotton shirt and pants in North America) and hang them in the bathroom, to let the shower steam out the wrinkles. Clean the helmet's face shield with the "bug rag" I carry in my tankbag, and hang the grubby white cloth by the shower to be washed later, then draped over a chair to dry overnight (in plain sight, so you don't leave it behind- it's the kind of thing you miss when a bug splatters itself across the plastic in front of your eyes). Finally, spread the luggage bags across the bed and dig out the plastic flask of The Macallan.
Far And Away  Neil Peart  p42

[Biggles]

The tiny, winding roads led us up across high ridges with majestic views, the rich green valleys sloping down to the glittering turquoise and blue water- the Atlantic Ocean to the north, the Caribbean Sea to the south. The riding was challenging, over crumbling pavement in tightly wound, narrow switchbacks, and I was reminded of certain roads in Mexico- especially el Espinazo de Diablo, "the spine of the devil", in the Sierra Madre. Other similarities to Mexican roads were the hazards of chickens, dogs, iguanas, cows, horses, ancient smoking cars and pickups, erratic driving, non-functioning brake lights and turn signals- not only unused, in the fashion of thoughtless drivers everywhere, but actually not working, their bulbs seemingly shaken to bits on the local roads. Potholes and broken shoulders were sometimes repaired with a patchwork of lumpy asphalt, and if a section of road had washed away down a cliff, they simply moved the guardrail in, greeting the oncoming rider with a sudden stretch of one-lane road. And perhaps an oncoming truck or school bus.
For all of those reasons, most of our cross-island ride was taken in first gear, creeping around blind hairpins with the ever-present possibility of... anything. In steeper country, where the road was carved into loops down a mountainside, the houses were perched at the pavement's edge. With no flat ground for a driveway, say, if a guy needed to work on his car, he simply parked it on the road and jacked it up- offering yet another surprise as we rounded a blind corner.
Far And Away  Neil Peart  p65

[Biggles]

Recently I happened to see a story in the New York Times (July 13, 2008) titled 'The Pros of Motorcycle Helmets', in which reporter Jerry Garrett wrote that victims of motorcycle crashes were indeed favoured by the medical community as organ donors. He recounted how a motorcyclists' rights organization had contacted a hospital to enlist their support for a 'freedom of choice' coalition- specifically, to support the right of motorcyclists not to wear helmets. The hospital directors were concerned about the ethics (or at least, ramifications) of such an endorsement because, as one doctor stated, "Motorcycle fatalities are not only our number one source of organs, they are the highest quality source of organs, because donors are usually young, healthy people with no other traumatic injuries to the body, except to the head." The hospital's 'ethical' issue was actually about (surprise) money- the loss of income the hospital would suffer as a result of a reduction in available organs for transplants if motorcyclists wore helmets. They decided to stay out of it.
Granted, the figures on motorcycle fatalities, especially from head injuries, are alarming, but a look at the details shows that those tragedies are so often unnecessary. The majority of such incidents share common causes: the victims were young, inexperienced, drunk, and bare-headed.
Far And Away  Neil Peart  pp90-1

[Biggles]

Looking over the map the previous day at home, planning my route to Death Valley, and browsing for anything new I might explore (always trying to find at least one new road), I noticed a dot just over the Nevada line called Devils Hole. (Note the lack of apostrophe- almost no official American place names have them, I've noticed, even if it's Browns Mill or Toms River. Apparently the Board on Geographic Names of the United States Government- yes, there is such a thing- hates apostrophes. According to Wikipedia, only five names of natural features in the U.S. are officially spelled with an apostrophe, one example being Martha's Vineyard.)
Far And Away  Neil Peart  p112